


the dance will carry on

by chaosy



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, I'm back baby, M/M, Rock Band AU, well sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-04
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2019-04-18 05:08:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14205744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaosy/pseuds/chaosy
Summary: “This is yours, right?” Enjolras says, dubiously. He doesn't put it past Grantaire to break into some random starlet's tent just for the hell of it.“How very dare you,” Grantaire says, mildly. He opens a mini fridge and cracks open a beer on the countertop. “Sit down and have a drink.”





	the dance will carry on

**Author's Note:**

> hooo boy. it's been a while, lads.
> 
> so for those who are wondering; yes I still write stevebucky, but I haven't written anything of value pertaining to that pairing in a long ass time. i'll for sure be uploading from a pantheon of pairings soon. i'm not so huge on fandom stuff anymore but i'll be writing still. fell in love with exr so get ready for a load of that. I've been reading your lovely comments over the past couple of years and they all warm my heart that you've enjoyed stuff I've put up, so thank you, thank you.
> 
> this is a neat little one shot i wrote for cinda in some fantastical world of rock star enjolras and definitely-not-hozier grantaire. lemme know how you think i fared. concrit always always welcome.
> 
> I'm pretty inactive on my tumblr but I'll happily chat over comments here.

“I think it might be a bit much.”

“What - the leather, or the glitter?”

Enjolras eyes up the outfit as if it's going to bite him. “Bit of both.”

“I'll wear it,” Jehan offers.

“You'll wear anything, Prouvaire.”

“Fuck off. I wouldn't wear  _ that _ .”

Courfeyrac straightens his neon tie proudly. “Because it's far too stylish for you.”

“It most certainly is not, the thing is  _ offensive- _ ”

“Enough, please,” Enjolras cuts in between them. He can already feel a headache coming on and they haven't even gotten through sound check.

Combeferre sticks his head into the dressing room. “Are you still arguing about that hideous costume?”

Enjolras claps a hand over Courfeyrac's mouth before he can swear at their manager. “It's a perfectly decent costume,” he says, because no one else here is going to play diplomat. “But not for tonight, I think,” he adds, apologetically. Courfeyrac will sulk but will eventually get over it. Bossuet shows up, late, takes one look at the sparkling boots and roars with laughter.

Enjolras heads outside for a little air, listens to Grantaire go through his sound check. He listens to him banter with the audio guys, make up random shit on his guitar. There's something weirdly romantic in hearing his voice all around but not seeing him, knowing he's unaware of Enjolras listening.

To be honest, he probably does know he's listening. Enjolras is weird, and Grantaire knows this.

Les Amis go through their own check directly after. Grantaire grins at him slyly from the wings as Enjolras steps on stage. Their music is decidedly more aggressive than Grantaire's. Enjolras still floats some of the higher notes, though. His throat has been a little sore as of late, he doesn't want to fuck it up further.

Because his luck is his luck, there's an issue with his guitar, and check takes fifteen minutes longer whilst roadies are running around them onstage. Enjolras waits it out, nods understandingly to various apologies. People think that they're going to be dicks because they're headlining. Enjolras  _ is _ a dick, but not like that.

Grantaire wanders over to him once they're finally done, and the others are heading to their dressing rooms. “I'll be honest,” he says, pulling Enjolras in gently by the lapels of his jacket. “I sabotaged your guitar. Now I'll be the headliner, you'll be the opener, how about that?”

Enjolras rolls his eyes and leans into him. “I opened for you on Warped tour,” he argues. Grantaire grins at him.

“Yes you  _ did _ ,” he says, with the worst kind of smile, and Enjolras scoffs at him before he tugs him in for a kiss. Grantaire winds his arms easily around him and suddenly any burgeoning headache is gone.

Enjolras enjoys the moment. Lets himself. They're tucked behind a stack of boxes, no one's going to look or particularly care. Grantaire describes himself as a  _ freewheeling bisexual _ and Enjolras awkwardly admitted to being gay in an interview a couple of years ago but they aren't actually  _ out _ , yet.

“You're thinking,” Grantaire mumbles into his hair.

“That's generally what I do,” Enjolras replies. Grantaire laughs and kisses his forehead, his cheek, his neck. 

“Have a good show,” he murmurs to him. Enjolras echoes it back and kisses his mouth before he lets him go.

Jehan coos at him when he gets back to the dressing room. “You're glowing,” he says. “Pre-show date?”

“Shut up,” Enjolras says, but squeezes his shoulder. He doesn't put on his hideous (sorry, Courfeyrac) outfit but allows them to put glitter in his hair and give him a little eyeliner, which will just melt off anyway, but Bossuet says it works. For the glamour, he says. Enjolras also tells him to shut up.

His actual stage outfit is a lot less offensive than the sparkling monstrosity that Courfeyrac proposed. Enjolras isn't one for fashion, really. He lets other people dress him for the most part. Simple, plain t-shirt, jeans, red scarf. He wraps it around his wrist, this time, where the blood flows. It's become a  _ thing _ now, with the fans – a lot of them wear some kind of red scarf to the shows, around their necks or in their hair or wrists or something. Enjolras started doing it because he liked red. His life is weird.

They're tuned up and ready, the first few acts coming and going to various roars of applause. Enjolras notes, as he listens, that every time Les Amis are mentioned they seem to get a little wilder out there. He doesn't want it to but the pride warms through him. They've come a long way.

Enjolras's boots feel heavy as he heads back to the dressing room. He talks to his friends, his bandmates. They clasp hands as the crowd shouts outside – Grantaire is starting his set. Of course Enjolras is going to watch.

Grantaire has a strip of red fabric tying his hair back into a bun. He should look ridiculous. He looks amazing, although Enjolras is somewhat biased. Grantaire's voice is raspy and he's a strange amalgamation between rock and punk, dressed in flannel and should look by all accounts like a godawful hipster. The entire crowd want to fuck him. Including Enjolras, but – he feels like that's allowed. 

“Hello,” Grantaire breathes to the crowd, after his first two songs. They don't reply. They just scream.

Everything about Grantaire's performance feels like sex. The way he sings, the way his cigarette-roughened voice curves so easily around his lyrics, his hands on the guitar slapping occasionally at the strings between strums, his easy stance and how he moves around the massive stage, just on his own, and seems bigger than the whole fucking festival.

And the  _ lyrics _ .

Grantaire isn't so poetic in conversation. He swears, hesitates, snaps back. He's witty and quick, for sure, but he's insincere and sarcastic to a point where Enjolras was  _ surprised _ when he heard his first song. It's as if someone turned Keats into a rock star. Someone took Byron's verses and wrapped them around slick guitar and heavy drums. 

Grantaire doesn't swear in his songs.

Les Amis songs by comparison are war cries. Simpler lyrics, more anger and push behind them. Chants that their fans can memorise and yell back to them, yell on protests. It's music you're meant to run to. Or from.

Enjolras watches Grantaire's set as if in a daze. Grantaire, just for a split second, as the crowd chants his name, glances at him and winks. Enjolras managed to smile back at him, breathlessly. 

The others crowd up behind him as the set ends. Enjolras takes a small sip of water, passes a hand through his hair. He smiles as the crowds almost reach out for Grantaire as he leaves the stage, desperate for him to return. He understands that feeling. He smiles at him and grips his shoulder, meets his eyes for a moment before he's on, and he's  _ Enjolras _ .

He is and he isn't himself on stage. It's a part of himself that comes out when in the fiercest of debates, that has come out the few times he's been intoxicated. Enjolras on stage is brave and bold, almost charming, holds his guitar like a weapon. AP described him as “if Freddie Mercury was a violent, French antifascist”. Enjolras had Queen's entire discography on his shelf next to his volumes by Marx as a teenager, so he'll take that happily.

He's not really aware of himself as they run through their set. He gets down on one knee and talks to the crowd at the front, speaks a few sentences in French and has to stop because the screaming is so loud. He breaks a guitar string during one of the solos which Courfeyrac will chew him out for later. Jehan takes his shirt off halfway through the set as the night's heat bakes them under the lights. More screaming. By the time they sign off, run through their encore, and finally get off stage, his ears are ringing.

Grantaire has vanished off somewhere. It's strange not to head straight for a stage door, do signings and chat with fans and pose for endless photos. Enjolras likes that. It's awkward –  _ he's _ awkward – but it makes him feel more like a person. They've got a meet and greet tomorrow, which will have to suffice. 

Enjolras heads for the showers. Glastonbury is the most excessive nonsensical festival on earth, but they do have good showers. There's no time for one, apparently, but he's handed a bottle of water which he upends over his head. He's still shaking a little bit from the set. It happens, he gets a rush, and when it's over his hands quiver a little bit. He's fine. He's okay.

He finds his band, and Combeferre, who looks very happy indeed, gathers them all in for hugs and tells them how proud he is to call them his friends and his partners and his  _ family _ , how they did so well, how tomorrow will be brighter, how he hopes they changed minds today. His friends hug him back and clap him on the shoulder, breaking off slowly to go find friends, enjoy the rest of their night.

A few people try and corner Enjolras for interviews. “Not while my hair is still wet,” he says, to one woman.

“What?” she says back. Enjolras blinks back into reality.

“Sorry,” he says to her. “That was – a joke, I was joking.”

“You were joking,” she says, her phone already recording his voice. 

And suddenly, a saviour.

“Satirizing the ridiculous demands of rock stars,” Grantaire sings, wrapping an arm around Enjolras's shoulders. “Really. It's another level to his art. Come along, angel, we've got people who need your blessing before they go out and get beautifully drunk.”

Grantaire riffs off a whole load of complicated nonsense as he pulls Enjolras away from the interviewer. Enjolras feels a little dazed. It's a big show, a lot is happening around him. A lot of noise. 

“Want some quiet?” Grantaire asks, his lips almost touching Enjolras's ear. Enjolras nods.

He's steered through the labrynth that is back stage, Grantaire guiding him with a hand at his back or shoulder, shouting hello-goodbyes to various reporters or fans or other artists who pass them by. Enjolras usually hates security guards but the festival is so vast that he's almost grateful for them here. And after fifteen minutes of noise and colour and darkness and confusion, Grantaire pushes him into one of the hospitality tents. 

“This is yours, right?” Enjolras says, dubiously. He doesn't put it past Grantaire to break into some random starlet's tent just for the hell of it.

“How very dare you,” Grantaire says, mildly. He opens a mini fridge and cracks open a beer on the countertop. “Sit down and have a drink.”

Enjolras sits. He doesn't drink the beer but accepts the water Grantaire pushes at him. “Good show,” he says.

“Great show,” Grantaire agrees. He downs half his beer, flops down next to Enjolras. “Well done.”

“You too,” Enjolras says. He wouldn't have thought Grantaire had this kind of show in him from when he first met him, but they've been together a long time. Enjolras had learned how to see him.

He reaches for his hand and presses a small kiss to his knuckles, and another to his fingers, his palm, his wrist.

Grantaire presses his thumb against the corner of his mouth. “Enough of that,” he says, quietly. “Or I'll have to have you on this couch, and then I wouldn't be able to move for the rest of the night.”

Enjolras kisses his thumb mulishly. “Not the worst thing,” he argues. Grantaire shushes him with a brief, warm kiss.

“We're at  _ Glastonbury _ . I'm not staying in tonight.”

Enjolras pushes against his forehead. “But then you're going to have to deal with the  _ English _ .”

Grantaire laughs at him. “The English are fun,” he says. “And they know how to drink.”

“Stay here and have sex with me,” Enjolras argues, feeling bold. Grantaire laughs again, but kinder, pressing his face against his neck.

“Don't fuss. I'll be here for a while yet. Can't leave that easily.”

“Good,” Enjolras says. He drags himself up, slowly, heads for the shower. The hospitality tents are grossly over the top, with ensuites and soft, jewel-toned canvas walls, everything lit by something mimicking candlelight. There's a lot of drapery. He and the other Amis are staying on the bus. They don't need finery. He knows Grantaire doesn't, either – he's seen Grantaire fall asleep in a puddle of his own piss, once, but he does appreciate the dual showerhead.

Grantaire steps in after him, because of course he does. “A work of art,” he says, sounding genuine about it. Enjolras is going to pretend his flush is from the hot water, as if they both don't know better.

“Quiet,” he says, watching him strip off. Grantaire is paler than him, has a load of tattoos, from flowers to a bubblegum logo that his best friend in school really liked. Enjolras has traced all of them multiple times and he does it again now, when he finally does step into the shower, running his fingers over his forearms.

Grantaire presses a soft kiss to his jaw. “How can I be quiet about something so beautiful?” he says, with just a teasing note in his voice. Enjolras is shit with compliments. He shuts him up with a kiss instead, lifting his hands to hold at Grantaire's head. Grantaire sighs against his mouth. Enjolras is hard, but doesn't move to do anything about it quite yet.

He breaks the kiss when he has to breathe, his mouth smearing against Grantaire's jaw, his neck. Grantaire touches their foreheads together and reaches blindly for some shampoo, the bottle slipping in his hands before he manages to get it open and pour some onto his hand. Enjolras faces him and lets him wash his hair, shutting his eyes and letting his head loll back. 

“Fearless leader,” Grantaire murmurs, because he is incapable of shutting up. Enjolras is pretty sure he loves him. “If only they could see you now.”

Enjolras hums. “You're the only one who sees me like this.”

“Good,” Grantaire says, lightly, and rinses his hair out, pulling him in again for more kisses before he turns him around to face the wall. Sometimes they let foreplay drag out, but tonight they're both pleasantly worn out, and lazy. Enjolras just wants Grantaire in him. 

The sex is good. It's always good with Grantaire, who understands who Enjolras's brain works, who knows how to take him apart as fast or slow as he likes by this point. Grantaire has very steady hands in bed, despite the fact that they sometimes shake when he drinks or when he lights up a cigarette. He fucks Enjolras in sharp, quick motions, presses him against the tiled wall, briefly slicks his hand around his neck and bites at his ear. 

Enjolras's footing slips a little when he comes but Grantaire holds him tight, mouth pressed against his neck. It doesn't take him too long to follow, his breath faltering when he finally does. They stand there for a few long, slow minutes, Enjolras reaching for his hand and kissing it again, just out of defiance. Grantaire laughs against his cheek. 

He inhales quietly when he slips out, feeling strange and stinging a little, but Grantaire gathers him right back up in his arms again, shutting the water off and barely allowing Enjolras to turn around as he kisses him. Grantaire loves to kiss. Enjolras loves it too, but only with him.

They somehow end up in bed, when they really should get up and eat and be productive. Every time Enjolras makes a futile attempt to move, Grantaire puts his weight on him and says  _ no, stop it _ , so he stays.

Enjolras kisses him. He falls asleep soon after, only to wake up to all the lights bar one in the tent extinguished, and Grantaire is fully dressed and tying his hair back again, with a red piece of fabric. 

“Going out?” he asks, softly.

Grantaire nods. “Staying in?” he asks. Enjolras nods back.

Grantaire leans over him to kiss him and Enjolras touches his fingers to his hair, his cheek. “I'll bring you back something nice,” he promises. Enjolras just kisses him again.

He watches Grantaire turn out the light and slip out the tent, turns over and steals his pillow. 

It's still warm and smells like their shampoo. Enjolras will allow himself that.


End file.
